


OUR HANDS ARE COLD SOMETIMES

by httplarrie



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Bottom Harry, Boyfriends, Fanfiction, Gay, Harry Styles - Freeform, Letters, Louis Tomlinson - Freeform, Love, M/M, Romance, Top Louis, Triggers, larry - Freeform, larry stylinson - Freeform, louis - Freeform, one direction - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-12
Updated: 2018-06-12
Packaged: 2019-05-21 13:07:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14915937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/httplarrie/pseuds/httplarrie
Summary: It takes Harry 12 months to realize he deserves better. Louis is right there to show him exactly what better is.One in which Harry writes letters that recount his life at the hands of abuse.





	OUR HANDS ARE COLD SOMETIMES

_**17th June** _

  
Hello,

I don't know how to start this, or even how formal it should be. 

I'd like to think of you as a friend and that you wouldn't care if I refered to you as 'Sir' or 'Ms', or if I wrote in full sentences, or had a few mistakes. I'd like to think you'd listen, like it said you would, and that you wouldn't care. (Though, I'll still keep the full sentences and minimize the errors.)

I didn't realize how much I needed this until right now. It's nice to talk to someone that doesn't know who I am, how I am, my friends, family. Someone who simply lives too far away to know, even if I do provide names.

No, don't worry. That doesn't mean I'm going to lie to you. It just mean it'd be easier to tell you things.

Times haven't necessarily been easy for me, lately. I tried to deny that fact for a long while, but there really isn't any way around it. 

A lot of people pretend things are fine and easy when they're not, though. I wouldn't be any different.

When I was younger, my Mom pretended things were fine all the time. I knew we were struggling. That guy behind the cashier that served you your breakfast? He's probably struggling, as well. We're all different, yet strangely all the same.

That probably wasn't original but I like it.

I'll write to you again when I can. With E-mail getting so popular nowadays, I should've sent you one but I prefered the idea of writing something to you every once in a while. I hope that's okay. 

Sincerely,  
H.

**_22nd June_ **

  
Hello,

Do you remember your first crush? 

And I mean the very first.

Maybe you were eight, or five, discovering for the first time that it was possible for your stomach to churn this way and your heart to feel this full.

Discovering feelings people to this day cannot comprehend fully. 

I was ten and the girl who tried to sell cookies on my street every other week had my little boy-ish heart swelling.

She seemed a little older, coiled black hair up in two little buns. Dimples pierced each one of her cheeks as she smiled, one deeper than the other.

I didn't know her name the first few times she came around, but I was just so... In love. Or what you imagine love is at that age. 

On the days I was certain she'd come, I'd sit at the top of the stairs, wait for a knock and her voice to echo throughout the entry way.

And what did I do when it did? I panicked!

My hands would get clammy, my heart raced, my breath shortened.

I felt like I was going crazy over someone I barely knew.

I remember chanting,  _"Calm down, Harry. It's just a girl."_ as many times as it took.

But isn't that what love is?

You always hear about the insane things people do for others out of pure love. Fighting in the trenches, risking their lives for the sliver of hope that one day, their darling would end up in their arms.

I didn't know a four letter word could be this heavy.

Besides the mysterious cookies girl and Disney movies, I wasn't subjected to much romance.

I didn't know how absolutely beautiful it could be for some people, and absolutely disastrous for others.

How much it weakens you, changes you.

For the better or for the worse? It depends, really. 

I changed for the worse. But not at first.

At this point, you're probably wondering if I'm referring to someone. I must be, right? I can't possibly ramble on about love and have it not be because of someone. Right?

If you thought that, then, yes. You're right. But I can't bring myself to write about him. (Yes, it's a him. I really hope you're not the type to care.) 

Doing so makes it real. It reminds me that I'm living the very life I'm writing about. Despite how strange that sounds.

It's like staring at yourself in the mirror for too long. You start to believe the person looking back at you isn't you at all. Your eyes, your lips, they begin to feel like someone else's. But the realization starts to seep in slowly—that _is_ you—and this strange feeling washes over you. As if you're detached from yourself.

I kind of feel like that.

I'll try and push past it, though. I told myself I'd be honest with you. For my sake, and I don't know, maybe yours. Maybe I've made you curious. Maybe you care.

If you are, and do, his name is Vince.

Whenever anyone asked about him, I just told him how absolutely... indescribable he was. It was the only word that fit best.

We had met in Al's Diner during the summer break right before my senior year, by the broken pinball machines at the back.

It's one of the best places for first dates or if you want to hangout with your friends on a Friday night. You can't meet a single person from here who doesn't know and love Al's.

It was rare to find anyone sitting alone in there, but that night I was, quietly chewing on my fries in one of the red booths as I listened to music on the Walkman I got that Christmas.

I almost didn't notice him when he walked past me, his heavy leather boots making a thud with every step he took. I was too busy swirling my straw in my strawberry milkshake, but when my eyes looked up, watching him idly stand by the counter, I almost stared.

Actually, I think I did.

I remember because he briefly glanced up in my direction and our eyes accidentally met.

I was quick to look away. I could feel my cheeks burning, embarrassed I had been caught.

When I began hearing thuds approaching me, my body completely froze. A bead of water formed on my glass and started to slowly roll down its curve. My eyes focused on that because I couldn't bring myself to look up and see him scowling at me for staring.

Instead of a scowl, though, Vince slid into the space infront of me and that's when I looked up, only to be greeted with a smile.

"Can I buy you another drink?" he gestured to my empty cup, remnants of the shake already drying at the bottom.

I looked at it, then at him, a timid smile starting to stretch over my face as I ran my fingers through my hair. It used to be shorter then.

I waved my index finger at the entrance and said, "Don't you have somewhere to be? You were heading straight for the door."

Vince only shrugged his broad shoulders in response, smile crooked. "I don't think anything can be as important as this moment right here."

And just like that, the same boy-ish little from 7 years ago was won over again.

Just. Like. That.

The strange feeling is back. The one where I feel me is not me. It's made even worse, since I'm sitting in the same spot I met Vince.

And yes, I'm alone again, but I like it that way, if I'm honest. I get to enjoy my food in peace. 

It's kind of nice to sit and listen to people just being people, too. 

There's a young couple in the booth in front of me. The guy has his arm over the girl's shoulder and she's giggling softly to something he probably said. 

On a table to my left, I can hear some kids talking about Biology. Probably cramming for a final exam. (I've already finished mine.)

It's just interesting to know that each one of these people have different families to go to, problems to deal with, hobbies that they like. Each one having different views on the world.

Makes you realize that you're just a spec of dust amongst millions, billions, of others.

I don't like thinking about it, though. It saddens me.

I should stop writing.

I have yet to hear from you, but I hope you're getting these. 

Sincerely,  
H.

_**30th June** _

  
Hello,

How are you?   
I've been pretty stressed. 

Which confuses me because I have no reason to be stressed. I've only been waiting to hear from the colleges I applied to. I don't know why it stresses me as much as it does.

My Mom keeps telling me anytime the topic is brought that any college would be lucky to have me, but it doesn't help.

Maybe things are moving too fast for me. One minute I'm learning how to ride a bike and the next I'm deciding what I want to do for the rest of my life. It's scary.

I don't think it's fair, either, because I still have no idea.

There are a lot of things I like to do, and many subjects I'm good at, but nothing I could see myself doing forever.

I'm good at math but I'd much rather die than be an accountant, or a math teacher, or whatever else you could be with a math degree.

Same goes for English, or science.

Maybe history's the only exception but even then, I'm still on the fence.

Thinking about all the gritty details like that really makes all the things I used to worry about in high-school, or even just life in general, seem really miniscule.

Like prom!

I understand it's a "Night to Remember."  A night where you can maybe get drunk, score with your girlfriend, and enjoy the last bit of your high-school experience before being shoved into the "real" world. But many try too hard to make the night perfect that they don't let it be perfect.

It also doesn't help that the whole thing seems overly anticipated.

My school had someone from the Prom Committee talk in the speakerphone at least twice a day, sometimes thrice if we were lucky, to remind us to buy tickets. They held assemblies—plural—handed out pamphlets, had posters. (Which isn't that out of the ordinary but along with everything else, it was too much.)

For a month, the big P word was all anyone could talk about.

Not me, though. I steered clear from any of the talks. I didn't want to hear about who was going to wear what dress, or what suit, or go with who because, well, I didn't want to go. 

I made the mistake of telling my only friend that sometime during third period. He refused to drop it.

Even when we sat in lunch, mouth full of so much pizza he could barely talk, he asked, "Why don't you want to go? Everyone's going to prom. It's not like you're going alone, right? Unless things aren't going too well with Vince?" Zayn swallowed his food mid sentence.

With a small sigh, my eyes fixated on the food in front me, I said, "Things are fine." Then glanced up at him to throw him a tight-lipped smile for good measure.

It was a lie.

Me and Vince spent that entire weekend fighting about something so ludicrous. Another boy he thought I was with, maybe? I can't remember, but we still felt the ripples of it in the week. 

"Then let's go!" Zayn slapped his hand on the surface of the table, a bit too loudly, in fact. He had always been dramatic like that.

When I said nothing, his shoulder deflated.

"It's your last week to get a tux." he warned. "Please just think about it. Please? For me." he leaned in closer to me with a smile.

I couldn't say no. I didn't have the heart to say no. I felt like I should've been thankful to have someone who wanted me to go so badly.

I groaned, but a small 'Fine' slipt past my lips and it was enough to get Zayn grinning.

As that week went on, and I got my suit rented, and Zayn and I planned what we'd do if—or when—the prom got boring, I started to find myself actually getting excited for it. Ironic, right?

When that Friday night came, I eagerly spent most of that evening trying to do my hair and switching between different colored ties. My suit was a bit too big for me, considering I rented it last minute, but it was barely noticeable. If you didn't stare at my legs for too long.

I called Vince's house to see if he was going at all. He hadn't told me otherwise—or even really spoken to me that week—but I figured it was better to check.

No one picked up, though. I called again after my mom begged me, for her pictures and no one picked up again.

It was apparent I'd have to go to this dance date-less. So I went on my own.

Already, my Night to Remember was turning sour.

When I arrived at the entrance, a minute late, there were already groups of people in the bushes at the far left who stumbled over each other drunkenly. It was only 6PM.

I ignored them, digged my hands deep in my pockets, and walked in.

The theme of the prom was Paris but looking around, it was hard to know there was a theme at all.

There was a medium sized cardboard cutout of the Eiffel tower by the photo booth and a few other French monuments stuck around, but that was all.

I maneuvered my way around the crowds of people dancing to the loud rock song the speakers blared, trying to find the only reason I was here in the first place. Zayn.

After little wandering, I found myself at the drinks table, pouring myself some red punch so my hands could have something to do.

I already wanted to leave at that point, but that thought completely vanished when I felt a light tap on my shoulder and turned around to find Zayn smiling at me. 

There was an instant wave of relief that washed through me. I may have actually sighed, too. I was just thankful I didn't have to awkardly walk around alone the entire night. 

There was someone standing next to him with his hands in his pockets, his eyes scanning the room as if he was looking for someone. I didn't know him, but I smiled politely. Though I doubt he noticed.

"I was getting worried you wouldn't show up at all." My friend said with a slight laugh. He picked at the snacks. "This," Zayn gestured besides him with his head as he chewed on a mini pizza. "Is Park. Park, Harry. Our dates did the lovely deed of abandoning us, so here we are." 

The three of us all stood by the snacks and drinks table and talked about meaningless things to fill the not-so-silent awkward silence. At first. Then we talked about a certain song by Guns N' Roses that came on and how much we loved it, then we talked about the band. Then about bands in general. 

When the conversation died down, Zayn led us through to talk to more people I didn't know. Most said they liked my suit.

Then he had the brilliant idea to go dance and who were we to say no?

I was having fun. For once in my life, I let all my inhibitions go—though, I wasn't drunk. All my cares, all my worries, they all dissolved on that dancefloor in a puddle under me. I was having fun on a night I spent weeks bashing.

In the midst of a song change, Park shouted something over the music about getting a drink, or going to the bathroom. I didn't know which it was. It left me and Zayn alone for a bit.

I remember he jokingly pushed his hand towards mine, as if asking to slow dance—even though the music didn't match at all—and I laughed and shoved his shoulder only to make him laugh, too.

Then Zayn made another joke, I can't remember what he sais, but I remember over our laughter, I could hear my name being screamed, somewhere in the distance. It didn't quite register in my head, though. Not until the person shouting it emerged from the crowd towards me.

It was a completely disheveled Vince. He wasn't wearing a suit, just jeans and a t-shirt.

"You're supposed to be dancing with  _me_." Vince pointed to himself, a deep frown on his face as he pushed past people to get to me.

I couldn't hear him right over the music so I said, "Are you drunk?"  

He repeated himself, slurring. "You're supposed to be dancing with me, Harry. So I'm having a hard time understanding why you're here right now with," he looked at Zayn.

I looked at Zayn. Then at Vince. "I called your house a dozen times earlier, you wouldn't pick up. I thought you didn't want to come." But he mustn't have heard me. He pushed his chest against my friend's.

From what I could hear, he was threatening him. Vince kept shoving at his shoulders, trying to get a rise out of him.

The entire moment just seemed to boil, and boil...

There were more shouting, from me and Zayn and Vince, there was shoving and pushing. I pleaded for my boyfriend to calm down, but like I said, he couldn't hear me. Or didn't want to hear me.

I placed a hand on his shoulder and tugged him towards me, trying to pry him away from whatever it was that was about to unfold. And then it happened.

Maybe I pushed him over the edge, somehow. Maybe it was the last straw.

Vince turned towards me, lifted his hand above his head and struck me across the face.

The entire room stopped to a screeching halt. The music stopped pumping. Everyone stopped dancing.

That's not what happened.  
It felt that way, though.

I knew that no one saw, and if they did, they were pretending they didn't. 

But I stopped focusing on anything and everything at that moment. There was a breath stuck in my throat and a stinging feeling on my cheek. 

I think Park came back in that moment but I had walked away too far to really know.

I remember the warm, comforting feeling that built up in my chest when I was dancing. I remember how quickly it disappeared. 

The next day, Vince told me it was accident and how sorry he was and how drunk he was.

Turns out, it was a night to remember, huh?

Write to you soon.

Sincerely,  
H.

 


End file.
